


Advanced Play

by lezzerlee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Daddy Kink, Dry Orgasm, Established Relationship, Fisting, Knotting, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 19:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5176319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lezzerlee/pseuds/lezzerlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles wants Peter's knot. He doesn't know what he's in for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advanced Play

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to Larkin for the beta!

A high, reedy moan rips through the air when Peter curls the three fingers he has buried in Stiles’ ass. He pushes them in slowly, until his knuckles catch, knowing the pace is torturous for Stiles from the little whimpers and gasps he makes. He can feel Stiles’ inner muscles ripple and see his thighs shake from where they are spread on the bed, the sheets clutched between long, agonized fingers. Every time Peter hits Stiles’ prostate, Stiles curses and his hips twitch forward towards the bed like he wants to get away, but a bead of precome leaks from his cock, which is flushed red, his testicles drawn tight to his body, ready to burst.

Stiles’ skin is red with beard burn from when Peter licked him open, teasing at first, before his wolf wanted more, wanted to devour him. He made do with sucking and biting at skin, bruising. He satisfied himself getting Stiles’ hole sloppy and wet and relaxed for him before starting with fingers. Peter adds a fourth and Stiles moans throatily as it sinks in. He looks so beautiful, stretched like this, flushed around his shoulders with sweat beading along his spine. Peter leans over to lick the glisten from Stiles’ skin, kiss his way up to Stiles’ neck as he takes him apart with his fingers.

He noses at Stiles’ ear, kisses along his shoulder when Stiles whispers, “Peter, I’m ready.” He sounds small, so young and innocent—the manipulative, little shit. 

Stiles knows exactly how to push his buttons perfectly. A trait Peter both admires and loathes.

Still, Peter can’t help the way his cock twitches as he breathes against the back of Stiles’ neck. He can’t help the way his desire burns hotter as he listens to the way Stiles’ heart pounds, a drumbeat crescendo threatening to burst through his ribcage, not scared, but excited. But Stiles’ heartbeat still skips when Peter growls, and Peter wonders if Stiles can feel how Peter struggles for control, feel how dangerous he could truly be. Stiles’ hand comes up to clutch against the side of Peter’s neck, holding him in place like a dare. He tilts his head back, stretching his throat long and vulnerable underneath Peter’s teeth.

He’s not sure if Stiles is stupid or brave. Maybe a little both, maybe just reckless, but it doesn’t really matter to him if it means he gets to pin Stiles to the bed and ravage him. Peter grins. “You’re sure, baby?” he murmurs, playing Stiles’ game. He knows Stiles loves it just as much as he does.

Stiles’s throat bobs as he swallows thickly. “Yes, Daddy,” he says as he pushes back against Peter’s fingers, grinding on them, his naked flank rubbing against Peter’s throbbing cock. “Please, fuck me.”

Stiles turns his head and Peter sees a brief flash of Stiles’ honey-gold eyes before Stiles kisses him. He tastes like salt and the acrid sweet of soda. He tastes like desire, like teenage boy, like blood too close to the surface of skin.

“It’s going to hurt,” Peter says when he pulls away. Peter’s voice sounds cracked, like he’s swallowed glass, the beast too close to the surface. He doesn't know why he bothers to warn Stiles. Why he cares. His wolf wants to tear Stiles apart as well as keep him safe. He tries not to think about what that could mean. He doesn’t have time to care about anyone but himself. But that doesn’t mean he can’t have a little fun.

Stiles smirks, the jut of his chin resting on his own shoulder as he looks back at Peter. “That’s why we’ve been working up to this,” he says, sarcasm dripping off his tongue before his tone sobers. “I’m ready.”

“You’re not,” Peter chastises and Stiles wiggles his butt defiantly, clenching a little around Peter’s fingers.

“Daddy, please,” he says, impatiently.

Peter pulls his fingers out. Stiles groans with disappointment, the muscles in his back contracting. “No, that’s not what I was going for,” Stiles says petulantly, and Peter gives him a little smack on the ass as he grabs the lube and squirts more over his hand.

“You,” he says as he pushes Stiles’ shoulders down to the mattress, “are a brat.”

Peter holds him down as he thumb’s more lube over Stiles’ entrance. Stiles hums and twist his neck to try to look back towards Peter even though Peter knows he can’t see much more than the wrinkled sheets.

It’s dim in the room, but not dark, just past sunset when wholesome families would be sitting down to dinner. Early, yet for the predators to be on the hunt. The sheriff is on duty all night and that means Stiles skipped lacrosse practice to be here, pathological, like a moth to the flame. And oh, Peter doesn’t think the sheriff doesn’t know about their little arrangement. The looks the man gives him whenever they cross paths is nothing short of glacial, all the bitterness of guilt and judgment mixed with impudent hatred as his fingers twitch towards his all-but-useless gun.

Peter chooses not to flaunt it in the man’s face like he might with others, because Stiles likes to think he’s secretive, likes to pretend at normal. And although Peter doesn’t know why Stiles even bothers to fake it —he’d missed so much school, so many practices due to supernatural interference already— he’ll indulge in Stiles’ fantasy. He won’t ask why. Getting to know Stiles too intimately would jade what they have. Here, Stiles is Peter’s boy, and that’s all that matters. 

His four fingers sink into Stiles’ again easily and then Peter has to let Stiles’ shoulders go so that he can start to work a single finger from his other hand in as well. “Don’t you dare come,” he commands as stretches Stiles even more. Each time he adds another finger, Stiles keens. Peter tries not to hit Stiles’ prostate much, now that they are so far along. He wants Stiles coming on his knot, or not at all.

They’ve never done this before.

Oh, they’ve fucked, but Peter’s never allowed himself to knot Stiles, or anyone since before the fire. It has nothing to do with romance, don’t get him wrong. It’s just difficult to explain that specific anatomy to those not in-the-know of the supernatural. He never would have even told Stiles if Stiles hadn’t brought it up, hadn’t looked up at him with those big, brown, Bambi eyes and asked, “Will you knot me, Daddy?” before taking Peter’s cock into his mouth. That was a month ago, when Peter had hissed, “Fuck yes,” before realizing he’d have to explain the preparation necessary to Stiles for it to even happen. He doesn’t even know how Stiles found out about that particular trait. Maybe he asked Derek? Maybe he assumed. The fact that he knows doesn’t surprise Peter, though. Stiles can be particularly focused, especially when sex is involved.

The sheets beneath Stiles are filthy, soaked from Stiles’ dripping cock. There’s a wet spot near his mouth where he’s panting. When Peter has eight fingers inside Stiles, he slowly pulls them apart. He wants to be able to get a whole fist inside Stiles before he sits him on his cock. Peter’s amazed that they’ve even made it this far so fast. With proper stretching and plugs, it should still take months to work up this point, but Stiles is anything if not determined, a trait Peter can admire. Such a good, eager, little slut, stretching himself every day.

When Stiles finally feels loose enough, Peter pulls one hand back, but keeps his fingers on the other inside his ass. He points his fingers in a cone shape, pressing them all into Stiles’ yielding flesh until his knuckles press up against his stretched rim. He pours more lube over the the back of his hand and presses in. Stiles’ rim doesn’t give at first, but Peter is unrelenting. Stiles whines, high and a bit wounded as his body tries to take Peter’s fist. Peter draws back and twists his wrist, then presses forward again. He massages his way in, small twists, just enough force Stiles’ rim to give, to finally allow his knuckles to slip past the muscle, his entire hand sliding in where Stiles is hot and slick inside. Stiles moans, a long startled note followed by short desperate gasps. “Oh fuck, holy fuck!” He repeats, face buried into the fabric below him, fingers flexing involuntarily.

Peter stills. As he waits for Stiles to recover, he can feel Stiles’ inner walls moving around his hand, can feel the way Stiles’ muscle tries to clamp down around his wrist. The pressure is amazing, and Peter can image the way Stiles will feel on his knot: hot and tight and wet.

“Okay, okay,” Stiles gasps after a moment. Peter still doesn’t move until Stiles pushes up on his elbows and looks back at him. “You can move now, Daddy,” hey says. “I’m good. I promise.”

“Yes you are,” Peter replies. “So good for me. My good boy.”

He places his other hand along Stiles’ flank, gentling him. Stiles’ face is slack, mouth open with his eyes fluttered closed as Peter moves. Peter listens to the way Stiles’ pitch changes when he relaxes or clenches his fist. Sweat is gathered along Stiles’ hairline now, matting his hair down around the edges. His gasps are musical, rhythmic and mesmerizing. When they start to shift, to become uneven, hitched gulps of air, Peter knows Stiles is about to come. Stiles is thrusting back hard. Peter can see the way his stomach muscles contract, the way his head dips down between his shoulders. He forces Stiles to stop even though he desperately wants to see Stiles come, to feel him from the inside, contracting around his hand. But that’s not the goal for today.

Peter pulls his hand out and lies back on the bed, his shoulders against his dark, wooden headboard. He beckons Stiles to crawl on top of him, to ride him. He’ll let Stiles control the pace this time. Peter knows, if he mounts him now he’ll end up hurting Stiles, and he wants this to be good, to get Stiles addicted to his knot, begging for it again and again.

Stiles straddles him with shaking legs as he sinks down on Peter’s dick slowly. He groans and tilts his head back, exposing his throat, pushing his chest out as his hands rest behind him on Peter’s thighs. Peter runs the flat of his hand up Stiles’ chest, over the wiry definition of his muscles and across his delicate collarbones. He wraps his fingers around the column of Stiles’ throat, thumb pushing into the hinge of Stiles’ jaw.

Stiles circles his hips, grinding himself on Peter’s cock, and Peter reaches with his other hand to hold onto Stiles’ hip. Stiles’ cock bounces between his legs. He’s not usually overly wet, but all the foreplay has his cock shiny at the tip, dripping down on Peter’s stomach. Peter starts to guide Stiles into a faster rhythm. He knows Stiles isn’t going to last, so he doesn’t bother dragging this out. His stamina is not under scrutiny here, he’s already proven himself over and over. Instead he lets go, let’s himself thrust up into Stiles with abandon, drive himself inside as he pets his hands over Stiles’ pale skin. He rubs his thumb over Stiles’ nipple, scratches his blunt fingernails down Stiles’ spine. He thinks of mess he’ll make of Stiles when he fills him up, when he claims Stiles from the inside and out.

As Peter draws nearer to orgasm, Stiles starts to lose control, letting out a litany of “oh, daddy” and, “please,” and “there, there, there,” which is a siren song to Peter’s libido, but it’s too soon; he has a specific goal tonight, so he quickly wraps his fingers in a ring around Stiles’ cock and squeezes hard, forcing Stiles to still, staving off his orgasm by brute force. Stiles whimpers and curses, and Peter sits up to wrap his hands around Stiles, to press his teeth into the juncture of Stiles’ neck and shoulder murmuring soothing words.

After Stiles has calmed he slowly starts to thrust again. He builds his pace quickly, knowing Stiles won’t be able to hold off again. He forces Stiles to look him in the eyes as he pounds into him, holds Stiles’ by the hair and claims his mouth until he feels his knot start to grow. Then he buries his face in Stiles’ neck again and bites, making sure to keep his teeth human and harmless, though he wants to shift, to tear into flesh, to claim properly.

“Fuck, daddy, fuck!” Stiles chokes out as Peter’s knot grows and grows. Stiles’s legs are trembling and his fingers are digging into Peter’s shoulders perfectly as he whines. Peter twitches his hips, forcing his knot to catch on Stiles’ rim, too large to pull out and still growing.

“So big, daddy,’ Stiles says mindlessly, and he has no idea, no clue what’s he in for as Peter spills himself inside, washes Stiles’ insides with his seed. It feels like heaven, the pressure and heat, the way Stiles clings desperately, the way Stiles body and his mouth beg for Peter’s claim. He kisses and gnaws at Stiles’ neck, biting and bruising, marking him with teeth and the scratch of his beard. Stiles is going to look like he was mauled in the morning, is going to carry Peter’s mark and his scent. It’s going to be so perfectly obvious who Stiles belongs to, and Peter’s wolf is so very pleased.

Once his knot is fully swollen, the size of a grapefruit inside of Stiles—bigger than a fist—he circles his hips to press it against Stiles’ prostate. Stiles’s eyes roll into the back of his head as he gasps, as his mouth goes slack with pleasure. Peter’s sensitive, almost to the point of pain, but it doesn’t matter. He _needs_ Stiles to come.

Peter reaches down to wrap his fingers around Stiles’ sticky, wet cock and strokes him firmly. Stiles doesn’t last for more than a few seconds, shouting out his orgasm, the muscles of his stomach jumping and clenching. But there is no mess of come, nothing slick and sticky pouring over Peter’s hand, and he looks down just to make sure and sees Stiles’ cock throb in his hand, a telltale if Stiles’ wounded cry wasn’t crystal clear. Their movements become jerky, both of them overstimulated, Stiles so exhausted he all but collapses down onto Peter’s chest.

Peter runs his hands over Stiles’ body, smoothing his hair, trailing down his spine, cupping the pert curve of his ass. Stiles hums in pleasure. He looks so young with his eyes closed, relaxed and happy after sex in a way he never is normally. Peter wonders if anyone else has ever seen him this way. Then he wonders why Stiles allows himself to be so vulnerable when Peter could destroy him, probably will destroy him in the future, when he gets bored, or when he has to choose between his beautiful pet and his own hide when their lives are on the line. He’s not a good man, but he tells himself that Stiles knows this, is too smart to not know how selfish Peter is.

They lay there until Peter’s knot goes down enough that he can pull out of Stiles. He’s gentle about it, endorphin induced tenderness lingering long after climax. He’s surprised when Stiles’ cock starts leaking thin, milky fluid onto his stomach, as if he just unstopped a dam. Stiles groans uncomfortably. “Oh god, that feels weird,” he says as his semen drips out of him slowly. Peter’s knot must have been too much pressure, pinching of the flow of Stiles’ orgasm.

Stiles bends down to kiss him again the smiles, his teeth dragging over the pout of Peter’s lower lip. “I don’t think I can walk or drive right now. I’m come-drunk, daddy. You broke me.”

Peter laughs, buries his hands into Stiles’ hair and drags him into another fierce kiss. Then he tips them over so they are both on their sides, gathering Stiles to hold until they fall asleep. He’s sure the mess they made tomorrow is going have him waking up annoyed, angry maybe. But he’ll deal with it then, kick Stiles out of his apartment, go for a run, forget what’s it’s like to fall asleep the the beat of someone else’s heart. He won’t think about it until Stiles wants his brains fucked out again. Peter’s always happy to oblige in someone’s self destruction, even if he has to ignore his own.


End file.
